L'enfer c'est les autres.

I see dead people. Paris is full of them, they're everywhere.

A few days ago the sun was absent, hiding behind masses of dark gray clouds. Rain in its place, the provided atmosphere was the perfect setting for a visit to some cimitières. At first thought, a visit to a graveyard sounds horrifying and uninteresting. But I've always liked them, seeing the rows of different tombstones and sepulchers, pondering what those people were like before they were buried in the cold earth for eternity.

In Montparnasse, we found the grave of two existentialist writers who wouldn't think about living in a cold damp cemetery for the rest of eternity. Yet I wonder what Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, both figures whom I admire, would think if they saw their tomb covered in flowers and letters from die hard fans.


Another grave that is littered by memorabilia from enamored devotees is that of Oscar Wilde in Père Lachaise. Anyone who has seen Paris, je t'aime would recall the scene of the couple who rediscovers love after the struggle to find this grave. I can sympathize with them, finding anything in Père Lachaise is an act from God. Once we finally found the monument, covered in lipstick from women who foolishly kiss the stone, I felt that I too have a strong affiliation with Oscar.

That photo is for you, Lindsey, since you aren't able to see Oscar Wilde in person.
And also for you, Kris. I'm throwing this picture of me instead of the one of Dorian Gray at you.